


one of these nights

by divinetock3



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Reader-Insert, do we TRULY care tho??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 05:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19222981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinetock3/pseuds/divinetock3
Summary: sully and sam visit reader for some reconnaissance and, naturally, sam finds he’s a little more interested in other matters while reader struggles with her doubts.





	one of these nights

**Author's Note:**

> i, too, am impressed by my use of the word ‘reconnaissance’. song of the day is ‘one of these nights’ by the eagles, which makes a brief, vague appearance! a…….true favorite, dear in my heart. thief’s end is not only my favorite uncharted game, but one of my favorite games ever and i’ve been playing the shit out of it for the past month trying to get all the trophies. i got the speedrun a few days ago and im . so fucking relieved holy shit. altho my dumbass somehow deleted all my treasures n i have to start from the beginning! :) :) not gonna lie, this was intended to be more flirty and romance-centric but i ended up getting a little too deep into my own psyche...............love that for me

It’s nearly midnight when [Name] gets a call. It isn’t so out of the ordinary: her friends tend to be in another time zone or too wired to fall asleep, needing an ear to talk off. Not that she minds. In fact, the latter is the reason she’s awake most nights. Her mind runs a mile a minute on the daily. At this time of night she’s usually reading, dancing with a glass of wine in hand, or watching some ancient movie on TCM. 

Tonight it’s The Philadelphia Story, a favorite since childhood. The glass of wine rests, empty, on her stomach as she slumps on the couch, eyeing the screen with bleary eyes as she circles a finger around the rim of the glass. The record player in the corner whirrs softly as Don Henley laments what will come one of these nights. Drinking makes her sleepy, so the ringing phone makes her jolt, shoulders hopping. 

She still has a landline because—well, she likes lounging on the couch, painted toes kicked up on the arm rest, and twirling a finger through the cord as she talks treasure and jewels and anything else thrown in her lap. _Art for art’s sake_ is the only thing she really lives by. If it looks good, why not? Her darling Romantics would be proud.

The phone stops ringing after the second trill, then the call comes in again not a minute later. Sullivan. She picks it up and he’s saying a little too loudly, wind fighting to be heard from beneath him, “How’s it going, kiddo? Would you mind if we dropped by?”

“Who’s we?”

“Myself and Sam.”

“Who?”

“I’ll…explain when I get there.”

She glances at her painted fingers—a flashy red—and fails to suppress a hiccup. God, that’ll be going the rest of the night. She can never fight them once they come. “I suppose,” she says, lifting a hand up into her hair. “Should I bother asking what this is about?”

On the other end Sullivan hesitates, then another voice chimes in to say something to him, unintelligible and indistinct. He returns the phone back to his mouth and says, “It’s easier to tell you everything in person. We’ll be there soon.”

She clears up the living room and kitchen while she waits. The wine glass is first to be put away as she still fights against the incessant hiccups and pours herself a big mug of water to fight it. That, and the inevitable hangover. She has work tomorrow. Why does she do these things?

Sam. It rings a bell, but it’s a common enough name. It isn’t the first time Sullivan has introduced her to an ‘old friend’. He has plenty of them. A good portion are shells of what they once were, drinking hard liquor with distant eyes and slurring every other word as if even breathing is a struggle. It’s quite morose to see what can happen if the job gets to you. One of her biggest fears is not that it will happen to her, but that she will have to watch it happen to those around her. She’s dealt with enough drunks in her lifetime to know she doesn’t want to make more.

Glenn Frey is singing about hiding lyin’ eyes about ten past midnight when the knock comes. She crosses the kitchen, bare feet padding gently on the wood floors, and opens the door to a man she trusts with her life, and a stranger. “Come in,” she says with a wave of the arm. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Why’re you still up, kiddo?” asks Sullivan.

This is their usual routine: he asks for help, she welcomes him in, and he plays father. There aren’t many people she would allow such familiarity with, but Sullivan has always been an exception. He has a paternal quality even if he doesn’t really mean to. Sometimes she wishes she’d met him when she was still a rowdy kid. Maybe he would’ve set her straight earlier.

“Can’t shut it off,” she says, and taps the side of her head.

“Good taste,” says the newcomer, gesturing towards the spinning record.

“Thank you very much.”

Sullivan huffs, a little amused and a little proud, and points at the TV. “Is that a young Jimmy Stewart?”

“Certainly is,” she says, spinning around as he graces the screen, his neck bowed forward and eyebrows drawn as he drunkenly slurs to Katharine Hepburn in his prim-and-proper tux. “My dream man since I was a little girl. Particularly in this. He has a…clever gentleness. It’s quite magnetic.”

“How lovely,” he mutters, somewhat more towards the stranger. To her he says, “Have you been drinking?”

With a shrug she leads them towards the kitchen, silently gesturing towards the stools at the counter for them to sit. When they do, she says, “A couple glasses. I figured I’d celebrate after grading today’s papers. Small victories. Any drinks for you two?”

Sullivan shuts his eyes and raises a hand: _No way_. Not common with Sullivan, but as he’s gotten older she’s noticed things don’t sit as well with him as they used to. The other—this Sam character—lifts a corner of his mouth in a smile. “Why the hell not?”

“All I have is cheap whiskey and cheaper wine.”

“Whiskey’ll be great.”

As she pours the drink in a meticulously-cleaned glass, she asks, “So, what is it today? Have you found Hoffa?”

Sullivan gives a gruff laugh—the only kind he can manage. “Not quite,” he says as she slides the drink over to Sam and leans with crossed arms across from them. “Nothing big, something small to keep us full.”

"You have a lovely place," says Sam after taking a sip from his drink. 

"Thank you."

"Homey. I like it," he says. His eyes carry around the polished kitchen to the darkened living room. The TV reflects brightly on the carpet and the now-bare sofa, a smooth blanket tossed haphazardly across the back of it. The coffee table is littered with books of varying nationalities, years, and subjects: _Catch-22_ , _The Aeneid_ , _The Man Who Laughs_ , _Treasure Island_ , _Lost Horizon_ —to name a few. All of them dog-eared, highlighted, and lived-in from years of being in her possession. Of course, he can't see that from here, but it warms her to know that someone is getting a good first impression. "Very nice," he mumbles somewhat under his breath. More loudly, he says, "Do you live here alone?"

Sullivan rubs his mustache. "Christ."

"Just being friendly," says Sam, hands up in surrender. 

"I do," she answers with an amicable smile. 

Before Sam can get a toe in, Sullivan interjects: "We hurried over here, kiddo, so I didn't have much time to introduce you to Sam, here. All he knows is your name, and—well, that's it."

"Big hurry," emphasizes Sam. "I'm the one with the drop on the case. I brought Victor along when I needed a flight. I knew I would, but I figured I would get bored and pass this off to someone else before then. But the more solid it's become..." Sam takes a sip of his whiskey and shakes his head. "I want to see this through."

"From what I've heard, so do I," says Sullivan.

Straying off topic, Sam turns to Sullivan to say, "Sometimes I wish it were a little easier. Y'know, stick to the states, find something quick as that"—he snaps his fingers—"and go home the next day. Something right there, conveniently next door."

She pipes up: "America is a baby, and nothing is ever easy. They've stayed hidden all these years for a reason." She wrings her fingers together, feeling a little eager, and passes a glance between the men. "So, where are you two headed?"

"France," says Sullivan, knowingly raising a brow to her. 

Something like sunlight pools in her chest. The first language she ever learned was French, and it will always be her darling child. "Oh," she breathes out.

"Ever been?" asks Sam.

"Here and there," she says. Sam doesn't know anything about her. _Well, that's it._ He doesn't know that 'here and there' roughly translates to a handful of times. It isn't just France that captivates her; truthfully, it's everywhere rich in history and art and culture. Ever since she was a little girl, she gravitated to museums and monuments and even old churches. The reason she's always known how important it is to her is that she's never been able to find the words for the joy it brings her. Surrounded by antiquity, seeing life through another era's eyes...that's the only happiness she's ever wanted. Sometimes what we can't explain seems to be what matters most.

She keeps this locked in, tucking her bottom lip in her mouth and trying to stay straight-faced. She's tried the treasure hunting life and it never worked out for her. The anxiety of competition and her life on the line always brought her back home early. The last guy she worked with was a wolf in sheep's clothing, and he died not too long ago. Even his ambition wasn't bulletproof. She'd rather be alive and bored, reading her stories and teaching her classes, than dead and unable to reap the rewards of her martyred mission.

Sullivan knows all of this, of course. One night years after they met she got sentimental and thoughtful while he puffed on his cigar and it all came tumbling out. He had draped an arm around her shoulder like only a father could and said, "It's scary, kiddo. But I gotta say, I hate to see your wit wasting away in a classroom."

She couldn't deny the lure of excitement wasn't intoxicating. All her life she's wanted to be more than everyone else around her ever was. She used that to push her to the top of her classes, to read books people no longer cared about, to strap as many languages under her belt as she could even if it meant losing a bit of her sanity.

Is it worth it? Some nights all she can think about is how maybe the reward really is worth all the risk, if she can at least say that she tried, if she can at least say that she didn't just sit by and let the fun happen while she stuck with mediocrity and monotony.

All of this runs through her head in a matter of seconds. Sullivan may know the full extent, but she isn't keen on letting anyone other than herself know the vulnerability that is her love for a time outside of the one she lives. It feels like an exposed wound; that's not for just anybody. So, wearing a mask, she fills the silence before it can get away from her: "I'm a professor at John Hopkins, right down the road. A linguistics professor. I have an affinity for other subjects, but language seems to jive most at the moment."

"When she first started," says Sullivan, "it was teaching classics. Five years ago, now."

"Linguistics professor," echoes Sam. To Sullivan, he says, "Now I get why we're here."

"Why so?"

"We've got something for you to read," says Sullivan.

He gestures to Sam, and then the latter is opening his coat—Baltimore winters can get to be a bit too much for the thin-blooded—and extracting a large plastic bag. Inside sits a yellowed document, well past expiration, with a tad amount of fraying along the edges. It's a mystery it hasn't crumbled into dust.

The paper is placed in front of her with care. Afraid to touch it, she leans over and fights off the glare from the lights overhead. "Do I get any hints?" she asks, her eyes already fighting to make out words.

With a soft chuckle, Sullivan sits back and says, "I'll give you an excuse to show off."

The words are stiff and slanted, marked in fancy script. She touches the edge of the plastic bag to bring it in a little closer. "As you said, French. Middle French, specifically."

"How can you tell?" asks Sam.

She keeps her eyes on the paper. "There's no distinguishing between possession, gender." She looks to the upper corner. "1669. Jesus, I can only guess how you got your hands on this."

"That's better kept a secret." 

The way he says it causes her head to lift, curious, and he flashes her a wink. A small smirk makes its way to her face, and her attention returns back to the writing.

It takes some time for her to read through it all. It's not terribly long, but the wear-and-tear of time isn't offering much help. She offers no other inquiries or insights as she reads along, rather preferring to wait until she's finished to pose any questions. By the end her eyebrows are pinched together and she's doubling back to confirm things she read before, readying herself for an onslaught of questions.

Eventually her slouch straightens. Sullivan asks, "Well?"

"Pignerol...it sounds Italian."

"Late seventeenth century," reminds Sam. "It was part of France at the time."

"I'm not sure how much you two know of this, so I'll just reiterate: It's written by a Marquis de Louvois. I'm not sure how or what, but he's a man in a position of power. These instructions are to a Bénigne d'Auvergne de Saint-Mars. He works in a prison. Should these names be ringing a bell for me?"

The question is ignored. "What kind of instructions?" asks Sam.

"Louvois is informing him of a prisoner that's expected to arrive—specifically, what to do with his cell. He wanted Saint-Mars to be his keeper, and to prepare a cell with elaborate doors. He says to visit him only once a day, not to talk to him, and not to let the prisoner speak at all. 'Threaten him with death if he speaks one word except about his needs.' Christ. Despite all of this preparation and warning, he says the prisoner is quiet, well-behaved. There must be more. Do you have the other pages?"

"No," says Sullivan.

"This is all we could manage."

She touches her chin. ”Eustache Dauger. It sounds familiar, but I'm not sure why."

"They must've mentioned the mask on another page," Sam says to Sullivan.

Her heart almost nearly stops. Looking up from the paper, the pieces click together and she looks between the two men as they ponder what she's told them. "No way," she breathes. Sam's gaze lifts to meet hers and a small smile plays upon his lips. "You're kidding."

"So you're familiar?"

" _Avec l'homme au masque de fer_? The man in the iron mask. Everybody knows that story. Jesus Christ, how did you get this paper? No, don't tell me. Holy shit. You're, what, going to try and find out his identity? What kind of reward could there possibly be for that nowadays?"

Sam weighs his head from side to side. "He's a stepping stone to bigger and better things. Louis XIV, in particular."

"There's a theory that this prisoner might've known information Louis wanted to keep secret. Treasure, maybe."

"The more we learn about the man, the closer we might get to finding where it's hidden."

"Where it _may_ be hidden, you mean," she says.

Sam waves a dismissive hand. "I try to be optimistic."

Riches...wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. But already she knows that this is why she isn't in this business: it's the unraveling of the mystery that entices her, not the sparse prospect of a payout. Sullivan has always ran towards the slightest glimmer of money, and while she can understand it—she's a teacher, for God's sake—it's hardly ever enough to go on. It would seem this Sam is the same way. Is it pure greed like Sullivan, or does Sam have something from his past he's trying to leave behind?

"Do you know anything that could point us in the right direction?" asks Sullivan.

"Not much. I've read Dumas' version of events, although it makes no mention of hidden treasure and focuses solely on our dear prisoner—and Dumas' musketeers. Dumas theorizes he's Louis' twin brother and that theory stands prominent today. Further popularized by an uncharacteristically mediocre performance from Leonardo DiCaprio."

"I thought it was alright," says Sam.

"Unless you want me to read anything else," she admits, a little sadly, "this is where I leave you." Her polite smile is steeped in bitterness.

"Actually—"

Sullivan interrupts: "Sam..."

"C'mon, you gotta admit she's useful."

"[Name] is a busy woman. She has a class to teach, papers to grade. Am I right? You couldn't possibly—"

"It depends what you're up against." Her arms cross, stern. "What's the competition?"

Sam cocks his head playfully. "Who says there is any?"

"There always is. All you boys can't play with your own toys. Someone always comes along and tries to take them away."

"Some guy named Roger and his gang of misfits. Nothing too crazy."

"It's all too crazy for someone inexperienced."

"Listen, the past several years have been a hell of a ride for me. I've faced worse than this new batch of guys can dish out. I mean, just two years ago my brother and I were waging war with some army-for-hire. Everything seems relatively tame as a result."

Her eyebrows knit. "Your brother's in the business too?"

Sullivan cuts in: "I assume you heard about your old friend Mr. Adler."

She pauses, then shocks herself with a sharp bark of laughter. "God. You're Sam Drake." Another peal of horrified laughter overtakes her. "Thanks for the heads up, Sullivan. I've already got a target on me just for having him here. Sorry, Sam, but you're not very popular."

"I'm well aware."

"A Drake in my house," she muses. "Fucking hell. He's turning in his shallow grave."

"Who—Rafe? Were you and him..."

"Hardly. He sure tried to."

Sam bristles. ”What did he need you for? Are you an Avery expert too?"

"I could read. That was all he needed. Long ago I heard you died."

"I rose from _my_ shallow grave, thankfully," he says. “So, are you in? We'll have to leave soon."

_Yes, yes, yes._ She wants to scream it, but the tether keeps her from jumping up and taking the opportunity. What about work? She would have to take a vacation, falsify some story. But that's the least of her worries. How does she explain away her own death? _Sorry, can't come back to work. I lied about why I left. I was actually involved in illegal activities and as a result I'm a little preoccupied with being dead to continue classes. Can you find a sub in the meantime?_

"Sounds like there's a lot on the line."

Sullivan eyes her without being obvious. His concern is plain in his face, likely because she knows him so well. No, he doesn't want her to come along, that much is clear. The implication frightens her; clearly Sullivan thinks this is serious enough that he doesn't want her involved. The answer is an immediate no. 

Then why is she hesitating?

"There is," agrees Sam. "Though I gotta admit, you seem to have the brains for this kinda thing."

"You don't know me, Mr. Drake," she teases.

The ever-present, easy smile that has made its home on his face—likely for his entire life; she can’t imagine the amount of trouble it’s kept him out of—has taken a dangerous slant. It’s amorous and far too much for a Wednesday night. She could get caught on the edge of that smile too easily. "With what little I've seen, I sure am impressed."

"Flattering. I'm not so impressive with bullets in me."

"We wouldn't let that happen. Right, Victor?" The other is silent, so Sam barrels on. "We're going to a foreign country. Without you, we're doomed. Really. Neither of us speak French, and I sure as hell don't trust anyone else I could bring on."

No. A big, fat no. Her instinct is practically screaming at her to not take this. But it's still here. God, that urge has always been there. Every time Sullivan has come by with questions about a new job or come back with pictures of some new exotic place he's visited. She bites her tongue, nods and smiles, but it hurts like a heartbreak every single fucking time. She wants that too. Why isn't she willing to fight for it? Is she that much of a coward?

Something about Sam holds that allure. He has the wild, unleashed look in his eye of a man reborn and wanting to make up for lost time. She heard from Rafe that Sam was still alive, and although she hadn't known him back then, she had felt sympathy for the stranger. Losing years of your life from a mistake? That could be her. Hell, it might be her now; how many opportunities has she passed on because she was scared? Where would she be now if she'd taken at least one of them?

"I can't," she finally decides. Sam deflates, while Sullivan seems able to breathe again. "He's right, I've got a lot on my hands." She meets Sam's eye and says, using a playfulness that sounds false to her own ears, "Ask me again when it's just you, Sullivan, and open skies. Nobody else."

"That's rare."

"Now you know where to find me. When you find that, call me."

"Speaking of," says Sullivan, "we'll keep in contact if we have any questions. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I wanna hear everything."

Sam looks a little downtrodden. Through it he nods. "When we come back you'll be our first stop. Will you have a drink then, Victor?"

"Why the hell not?"

At the door, the three of them gather about. She can't shake the anxious pit in her stomach. It could be from turning down the offer, or some terrible intuition, but either way she wants to sleep it off and forget about all of this until the end of the week. She still has work tomorrow. 

Sullivan pulls her in for a hug. Around him she can see Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn realizing their renewed love minutes before her wedding. That's the kind of sickly, ironic feeling she's having now; this gross double-edged sword that is pulling her in different directions. Yes, she's going to sleep like a rock.

That friendly smile returns to Sam's face as he shakes her hand. His touch lingers too long after and he says, "Expect us soon, sweetheart."

"Will do."

Just as abruptly as they had arrived, they're gone. The movie continues on in the silence as she hovers by the closed door. Her feet itch to run out there, offer up her life, and join on an adventure for the first real time. The knowledge that no matter what, she fucking did something. But fear keeps her rooted to the spot. It makes tears prick at the back of her eyes and she angrily blinks them away. 

But something has undeniably shifted in her head. No matter what, even if she isn't going this time, she knows she's reaching a breaking point. At some point or another, all of this will get to be too much and she'll join them. Maybe that time will be more scary or not worth the reward, but maybe she won't care. It'll be _something_. Perhaps allowing a Drake in her house was more dangerous than she originally thought.


End file.
